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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065278">The Taste Of It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_roses/pseuds/forest_roses'>forest_roses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>give me your gravity, there is none here [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wolf 359 (Radio)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(It's very minor but I'll still tag it), (mentioned in passing), Asexual Kepler, Asexual Relationship, Demisexual Jacobi, Episode 42: A Time To Kill, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Trans Daniel Jacobi, also there is gravity, both are only lightly implied but it's how i view the characters, i'm surprised i didn't quote shakespeare in this, kepler is such a horrible person and I love writing him, this is too soft but kepler feels guilty about lying</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:15:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_roses/pseuds/forest_roses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He is so different now than the man he was when he first kissed you; the courage he showed then is not gone now, but it is taken up in how he is keeping himself together, and there is little left to spend trusting you.<br/>There is a difference, too, in the way he pushes you against the door, there is less desperation but more fear in it, too many things to say and you carry all of them in silence. His kisses are bruising, his breath floats deep purple and crimson across your lips and you breathe in the smell of him, the one thing that, after all this time, has never changed.</p><p>Or: how to convince someone of their humanity while lying through your teeth about everything else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>give me your gravity, there is none here [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Taste Of It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My second work for this fandom. Writing Kepler is a lot of fun, and I cannot be held accountable for what I create at 3 am.<br/>This takes place after the events of Episode 42: Time To Kill.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He comes to your door in the small hours of the morning, his footsteps slowing and then stopping, hesitating, beginning again as he starts to turn away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open the door before he has a chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Daniel." He isn't looking at you. His eyes are cast downwards, half closed, and his fists are clenched (he has bruises on his knuckles where he hit the wall too hard) and he is breathing too heavily and all you want to do is take him in your arms and tell him he is going to be okay, but you won’t. You won’t because that would only be another lie falling between you, and the chasm they will make when they hit the floor will already be nigh unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I..." He clears his throat. "I apologize, sir. I shouldn't be here." The way he speaks the words makes you cringe, the sarcastic spite at life it held before is now full of choked ice, like every sentence burns a throat he no longer truly knows is his. He still has not noticed that you've called him by his first name for the first time since setting foot on this wasteland of a ship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jacobi," you speak a little harsher now, and that makes his head snap up and his shoulders straighten in a pantomime of obedience that rips at the seams where his weariness shows through. "Was there something you needed?" He winces slightly at the volume of your voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I... Did Lovelace explain what happened?" He asks the question hesitantly, not so much afraid as just too tired to face whatever the answer may imply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She did."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did you think?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excuse me?" You don't mean the words to sound so harsh, but you are surprised, in a way, that he sounds so defeated. The man standing before you is not the man you’ve known him to be these last few months, and it is not the first time you’ve wondered how much he is hiding from you, but it's been a while since you've felt it so strongly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a while since you needed to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s been a while since he’s looked at you like that, and your heart can’t really stop at that look but it’s sure trying. Before you can repeat your question, he inhales slowly and closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again a mask has descended over his face; the picture of a perfect SI5 agent, emotionless and at attention. You taught him how to do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pride twists in your gut, and you hate yourself for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How should we respond to the events today, sir?” he asks, and his face is blank but his eyes betray that he is cautious now, wary of your answer. You don’t need to point out that it is too early in the morning to do much of anything right now. He’s just waiting for you to tell him to leave, and you should, you really, really should because neither of you can afford to get distracted right now and you know if you don’t make him leave right now you won’t be able to make him later; but you're wondering if telling him to leave will make him be gone for good this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That depends,” you say, “are you the real Daniel Jacobi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there he is, the charred parts of him showing through, dark and strong despite everything. He meets your eyes for a second and flicks them just slightly to the side, unable to keep looking but unable to look away. He’s not answering, but you know he’s right there; you can see him shifting below the skin of this empty creature before you, and you’ve never had the patience to wait until he decides to come out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give me your hand,” you say, and he looks a little startled by the tone (you learned long ago he responds best to orders when he’s like this), but he complies. He watches you with eyes that are so close to bravery, and you lift his hand slightly, turn it over, pretending to study it. You hear his breath hitch as you raise it to your lips and press a slight kiss to the back of it, not looking away from his eyes. The rapid changing of his thoughts are evident in his uncertainty, and it is that uncertainty that makes you tell him. “Daniel,” you say again, and this time he notices. “However intelligent these aliens may be, do you really think they’d be able to fool me?” You pause, and then, “Or you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t leaning away from you anymore; instead he looks like he is hesitating to come closer only out of fear that you will knock him down, and you give in before he does because you’ve never been able to see that look on his face without wanting to hate yourself even more for the effect you have on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not surprised when you push him gently toward his still-open door, but he is surprised when you follow, and you hold up your hands in a mockery of surrender to show you mean him no harm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is so different now than the man he was when he first kissed you; the courage he showed then is not gone now, but it is taken up in how he is keeping himself together, and there is little left to spend trusting you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a difference, too, in the way he pushes you against the door, there is less desperation but more fear in it, too many things to say and you carry all of them in silence. His kisses are bruising, his breath floats deep purple and crimson across your lips and you breathe in the smell of him, the one thing that, after all this time, has never changed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull down the collar of his shirt, just a little, and press cold fingers to the scar on his shoulder, the one that he got in Michigan, where you went on your third mission together and he couldn't dodge a knife fast enough. He shivers, and you push a little harder, and then lean down and kiss it softly. He pulls his shirt over his head and you see it fall to the floor beside you, and when you look back at him you see a million emotions playing across his face, his fear and something you refuse to call love sitting sharp in green and brown eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(He'd always been so self conscious about the difference in between his irises, the varied colors reminiscent of a childhood spent beating down every part of him that screamed that he was different.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(He started wearing colored contacts when he was sixteen. They stung his eyes but he wore them anyway, playing off the tears as allergies.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(He doesn't wear them anymore. He stopped after you leaned over him one night and kissed the closed eyelids, whispering that he was beautiful, whispering that you'd always wondered what the eyes really looked like underneath the lenses. Then you got scared by how dangerously close that sounded to affection, and you added a thinly veiled barb to the end of the sentence and he kissed the lie off your lips and pretended he couldn't taste the difference.) </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(You do a lot of pretending, the two of you, forever on the border between love and cruel reality.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You are walking that border now, as you trace your hands down the lines on his back, the bullet scars pocketing his chest, as you kiss the crescent moons and turn your face into the shadow of his wrist, where his father threw a wine glass at him when he was seven. He has always refused to cover up the scar, even when he hides all the others, he wears it proudly like a battle wound and keeps his face trained like steel all the times Cutter gives pointed looks at the two of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is strong, your fire-light boy, and all the more strong for the way he looks at you now, how he lets his doubts and longings show, the way you've always wanted to but never learned how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when you pull away, watching him, he raises a hand to your hair and brings you back to him, kissing harsh and nicking your lower lip with his teeth. You let him, and in the moments he pulls back for breath, you tell him he is human in the way that he is so detailed, that he is covered in little memories of his humanity and he lives and breathes with them, and after he is done breaking the life out of you with another bruising kiss you press a palm to his chest and feel his heartbeat under your hand and he looks up at you like you are the world and you wish you had the heart to tell him you are anything but.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all sounds too close to an “I love you” for the two of you and for just a second you consider saying it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>saying it, just to see what happens. Something inside you wants to know, and you ignore it; the same thing you do every time. But it lingers, the taste of it presses against you when he takes your hand and puts it gently back on his shoulder, an open invitation to stay or push him away, and you’ve never been good about temptation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiss your broken confession into his skin, Warren Kepler, put everything you have into loving this man; you love in silence and in action, and you will never once love in words. Let the weight of all that is unsaid roll across your tongue and toy with the idea of telling him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’d almost be worth it if he’d keep looking at you like that.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wrote this listening to Going To Bangor and Standard Bitter Love Song #4 by The Mountain Goats back to back for several hours.<br/>Comments and kudos are much appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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